Start...

I used to, for more than half of my life, use these little hardbound handy-sized sketch journals to record, collect, react to, rant about, shit-on, or love life as I lived it. I would take them with me everywhere (still do sometimes). I'd throw in antidotes, sketches or whatever I saw fit that I knew would come in handy to reflect upon when the time for making was nigh. They became an important part of the whole process for me. They are quite beat up and stuffed with a mish mash of the crap I guess was too much to leave in my head, or too important to trust with memory. They have been on road trips, they have been in cafes and bars, always carried with me, even through basic training, being desperately hid from drill sergeants.   I used to think, if there were a fire, I'd grab those first. Now of course its the kids, and the dog, cat.  They would burn I'm sure.

So now I'm using this as my new journal I suppose. I will however miss the smell and feel of the pages and how the ink scratched into the paper, how sometimes friends or acquaintances would scribble something in their margins, how the bindings would sometimes overwhelm and break, how their tattered and worn pages made them beautiful, lived in...